King and Lionheart
by RoaminVagabond
Summary: Based on two of my favourite fandoms. The Hollow Crown TV series (Shakespeare's Henry V), and Lauren Kate's Fallen book series. This is a "What If" Lucinda Price was born into the French royal family in the 15th Century and was Catherine of Valois' younger sister; and what if the King of England took a liking to her instead of her sibling.
1. The Turning Point

**CHAPTER ONE**

**THE TURNING POINT**

Catherine looks beautiful, there is no denying that. Her pretty golden locks are brushed out so that they resemble fine silk and the natural, loose curls are falling down her back as the maid braids some strands together. Catherine is gazing at herself in the mirror with a look of both worry and fear on her young face as she watches the maid progress, silently wishing that she will never be done. They've been preparing for this day for a while; ever since the boats landed on the Normandy coast, ever since the other King lead his army across French lands in a success that no one had expected. Catherine had been waiting for this, they all had, but now that the day had finally come she was as nervous as ever. Petrified in fact.

"What if he does not like me?"

She asks in quiet French, the worry rippling through her voice which makes her sound younger than she is; vulnerable almost. They have all heard stories about this King. This brutal warrior that had invaded their home killed their men and demanded their Father's crown as a reward. This man that she was to marry, and appear to be glad to do so.

For a moment there is silence in the room, until the creak of the four poster bed signalled some movement and a younger girl appeared behind her, watching Catherine's reflection in the mirror before them with a bright, almost naïve smile.

"How could he not like you?"

The girl replies in the same lamented French tones, her smile growing softer as she touches Catherine's shoulder in comfort.

"He will love you, sister. Everyone does, you charm people easily and this English King will be no different. He will take one look at you and he will be enamoured."

Catherine's features softened a little and the smallest of smiles touched her pinkie lips, her eyes lowered modestly as her shoulder was patted.

The two girls were siblings, and it just took one look to confirm this. Though Catherine was fair and with slightly darker skin, this girl that stood with her was raven haired and with skin the colour of milk. They did, however, share some facial similarities. Their lips curved in the same way, with the latter's cupid bow being a little more prominent, their cheeks harbouring the same dimples when they smiled and their eyes were the same colour which they gained in inheritance from their Father, Charles.

"Thank you, Lucinda."

Catherine murmurs in sincerity as she takes her sister's hand and squeezes it. Despite Lucinda being the youngest of the pair, Catherine finds her the most comforting.

"Promise me you will accompany me today. I would feel better with you close by."

Lucinda stiffens slightly and her eyes dart to the maid who is still working on her braids.

"I do not know if that would be allowed. Father sa-"

"Just to the hall, that is all I require."

Catherine watches her, and there is a pleading in her eyes that Lucinda cannot ignore. She pities her; pities her because she would not like to be in her situation. Catherine is strong where Lucinda is naïve and young and with much still to learn; she would not be able to shoulder this dutiful burden if it were thrust upon her. Quietly she nods and Catherine beams, hugging her briefly before they part again and Lucinda moves aside to allow the Princess to finish with her preparations. By the time she was dressed in her new gown, her hair fixed into place and with a light mist of fine perfume lingering in the air of the room Catherine looked more nervous than words could ever describe.

There was that pity again, turning over in the pit of Lucinda's stomach and quietly she moved closer to her sister and grasped her hand tightly. Nothing needed to be said between the pair of them as they left the room; Lucinda's unspoken support did not need to be commented on. Instead Catherine just returned the tight grasp and strolled beside her, drawing strength from her presence.

Lucinda was a few inches shorter and just a year or so younger than her sibling, but as they walked side by side there didn't seem to be much difference in them at all.

Lucinda looked older than her seventeen years, and the way in which she was there to support her family said volumes about her love for her family.

The halls in the French palace are wide and filled with grey stone that are cold and draining and dreary on certain days when the flickering light from the torches that are mounted on the walls do nothing but cast ominous shadows over the stones.

The pair walk in silence, with just their shoes echoing off of the stone with each step they take; along with the steps of the old maid that followed behind them. She would accompany Catherine into the meeting hall and this filled Lucinda with a small, warming comfort to know that she would not be completely alone, as if thrown to the wolves.

"Voilà."

Catherine murmurs as they reach the double doors that will lead her to what will be a turning point in her life. The Princess attempts to smile and looks to her sister, who mirrors the same, wry, tight expression.

"Just be you, Kate." She murmurs quietly and squeezes her hand again. "And you'll be fine."

The sisters hug in a crushing embrace before they finally part and the doors open for Catherine to enter. Lucinda steps back and lets her go, but even as she does this she can see the gathering of both Kings and their men around the small fire in the centre of the room; the sight of them there unspeakably threatening. How neither King spoke to the other, or so much as looked at him. It was as though the hatred and the hostility poured out of the room the very second the doors were opened; a tense atmosphere that Catherine was forced to stroll into with a smile. The King's conversing, each to their own people, halt once the doors creaked open and they all turn to look. Catherine walks in, perfect posture, pleasant aura, hands clasped neatly in front of her and a polite smile upon her features as the maid follows behind her. Both women curtsey in respect, bowing low to both Kings.

But as the doors close behind the glowing French Princess, Lucinda briefly catches a pair of blue eyes upon herself; piercing and striking and brighter than any blue she has ever seen before. She stares at them, captivated in those short few seconds before the doors thud closed and the room beyond is shut away from her prying eyes. All she is left with is the image of those eyes watching her, of the weak knees they invoke and of how the King of England had watched her rather than the regal entrance of his bride to be.


	2. A Crippling Blow

**CHAPTER TWO**

**A CRIPPLING BLOW**

**A/N; So, Chapter two took me a little longer than expected. Been busy with a few things in the mean time but, finally, here it is!****  
****Thanks to those who have read the first Chapter and have shown an interest, I'm honoured.**

**I hope this one keeps you just as interested. Reviews are always welcome.**

**Enjoy.**

***(PLEASE NOTE) French is not my main language and, as expected, I am bound to make some mistakes. You can find a small glossary of the French words and phrases used at the end of the Chapter.**

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One only ever heard tales of the war, stories from wagging tongues that originate in taverns and brothels and pubs, places where Princesses never ventured, and these stories were generally stretched for nothing more than entertainment. Everybody enjoyed a legend of Kings and Warriors and Tyrants, and the legend of Henry the Fifth had spread rapidly through the French towns; usually leaving fear in its wake; fear for the King who'd landed on their shores, invaded their lands, sacked _Harfleur_ and turned French men into rotting corpses.

Lucinda had once forced her hand maid, a young sandy haired girl that sometimes did not know when to keep her mouth closed, into telling her the rendition of the tale that she, the maid, had heard from the kitchen staff. The story of the tall man, lean and frightful and scarred and blood thirsty. She found it hard now to believe that the young man she had seen in the hall had been the source of the legend.  
The tales of the English King and his army of bowmen that struck hard and fast sounded like nothing more than a well spun story to her. To think that he had been the one, with so few numbers, which had prevailed over an entire French army, inflicting remarkable casualties, and thus captured his victory. He had looked like a King, yes, but Lucinda was long since used to not holding faith in a King's appearance when her own father, the Mad King, looked as convincing as any other monarch, yet failed to govern his land successfully; and, too, there was something else to this Englishman's appearance that did not quite live up to the image she had painted of him in her mind. For her he lacked, slightly.

Then again, she had not been in his presence long enough to judge him correctly; to feel his eyes burn into her in the way Catherine had.

"He didn't like me."

She says some hours later as the two girls are sat cross legged on the floor of Catherine's room, perfectly alone and free to talk. It feels like they're children again, of an innocent age where marriage and duty should be so far away from their minds.

Catherine's head bowed and she's stared into her lap, shaking her head and recalling everything that had happened in the meeting.

"You don't know that."

Lucinda attempted to sooth and comfort her, reaching out a hand to grasp her sister's, but stopped when Catherine lifted her head and stared at her with such intensity.

"I do. I know it. He didn't like me at all. He hardly even look at me, and when he did he was... it was like he was angry." Her eyes were wide and in that moment she looked younger than Lucinda herself; frightfully vulnerable and fragile like a bird that had been thrust from her cage before she was ready to fly.  
"Father kept watching me too, he's not pleased. He knows I've failed him l-like there is something I did not do. But there is not. I did everything..."

"I'm sure you did, Kate. Father is so blunt sometimes when it comes to these things. He is impatient and cannot see what is in front of him. Relax. Nothing is ruined; you are doing everything that is asked of you."

Lucinda grasped her hand then and smiled brightly at her, coaxing a smile from her sister in return and within that split second the similarities between them both were strikingly similar. Comforted by her sister's words this is the first sign of relief and happiness that Catherine allowed to pass over her pretty features ever since she was first told that the other king was to visit.

With her hand firmly remaining in her sibling's grasp Lucinda lowered herself onto the bed beside her and, with curiosity worming within her like it always did, like the bad habit her maid had always tried to coax her out of for years, she spoke quietly.

"What... What was he like?"

Catherine took a moment to ponder this question, though a small grin soon crossed her features and she looked to her sister in an almost giddy and girlish manner.

"Stubborn." She giggled.

"Very stubborn. And bold, he wasn't afraid to talk bluntly to Papa. I've not even seen Louis or John speak to Papa in the way he did. It was... admirable."  
She chuckled again in that typical girlish fashion and Lucinda, grinning at the mention of their elder brothers, noted a faint blush blossom on her sister's cheeks.

"Don't let Papa hear you say that." She replied when Catherine's laughter had dwindled.

"He might not be too impressed."

"Oui, but Lucinda, if you'd have seen it you would have to agree also."

"You, sweet sister, are just swooning."

Lucinda nudged her and earned another giggle; laughter that soon ground to a halt with an interruption.

The chamber door opened, the old wood creaking in response as the servant who'd opened it bowed as low as his stiff, old back would allow him so that the tall man he made way for could stride easily into the room.

Charles was a tall man indeed, standing at roughly six foot with broad shoulders that told of the strength he once possessed in his youth, when swinging a sword came as naturally as drawing breath; though it must have been years now since he last raised a sword to that effect.

He was a slender man, though muscle had long since diminished and he was steadily growing plump around the middle from too many rich meals and inactivity; the picture of a man who did not ride out into battle to defend his lands, and that was exactly why the young English King was coveting France from under his nose. His hair was a tangle of curls that greyed in places and were held back from his gaunt, once handsome face solely by the ring of gold that circled his head. The crown was a work of art, in truth, with detailed Fleur de Lis and precious blue gems spaced around the delicate gold band. Lucinda had always admired it, even secretly tried it on in her youth when no one was looking and she could pretend to be ruler for a few short, innocent moments. Around his neck Charles wore a chain of gold that matched the design of the crown and contrasted perfectly with the elegant, pale blue of the rich materials he wore; materials that swayed behind him when he strode into the room and made him look every bit of a King.

But that's all he was, all he ever would be... The image of a capable King.

"Papa!"

Catherine chimed and rose swiftly from the bed the moment her eyes had landed on their father, curtseying low with the same amount of respect that the servant before her had shown. She adored her father, idolised him, even with his bouts of insanity.

Lucinda, in all honesty, did love her father as much as any daughter should, but she could never manage to adore him in the same, all consuming and blindly loyal way that Catherine did. All the same she mimicked her sister and picked herself up from the bed, bending her knee in a polite curtsy with her back almost painfully straight.

Charles acknowledged both daughters with a vague smile, though, surprisingly it was not Catherine he went to first but Lucinda clasping her petite face in both his large hands and smiling at her, the ruby and sapphire rings on his fingers feeling cold against her pale skin. He was in a good mood, that much was clear, which would have lead Lucinda to expect that all had gone well and that Catherine had been worrying about nothing... if it had been her he'd come to.

"_Mon moineau_!"

Mused the King, addressing his youngest child, his little 'sparrow', with a tone of sudden affection as he grinned at her and kissed both her cheeks before looking over her appraisingly.

"You continue to surprise your old father."

Confused she looked to her sister, though Catherine looked just as perplexed, and slightly appalled, as she. Perhaps, Lucinda pondered, their father was simply having one of his 'off days' in the battle for his sanity and was merely mixing up his daughters; after all she had done nothing and it was Catherine that should be praised.

"Papa I-"

"Catherine, ma chérie you did wonderfully today."

No, he was not mixing them up. On the contrary Charles looked more alert than either of his children had seen him in some time, and, almost sickeningly, he spoke to his older daughter with a horribly potent tone of dismissal.  
"_Vraiment_? But, Papa I thought that he did no-"

"Oui, really. Better than I could have asked from ma fleur. But there is still business to tend to."

He sounded curt, annoyed almost with even his sweet nickname for her sounding sour on his tongue and when he touched Catherine's cheek it was only briefly, and his eyes did not take long to roam back to Lucinda and look her over one more time before he turned his back and ambled back toward the door he had made his entrance through.

"Come, we must settle matters before the _freluquet_ of an English King changes his mind. Change your gown, prepare yourself my child, you need to make a lasting impression."

Both girls looked perplexed, but it was Catherine that eventually moved forward to do as she was told, the previous happiness that Lucinda had seen on her young face slipping and being replaced with that grim expression of worry and faint sadness.

"Non non. Not you, Catherine. Lucinda."

"**What?"**

Both girls blurted at the same time, Lucinda's eyes bulging and Catherine's shoulders dropping dramatically.

"Oui, Lucinda. He wants to see you... Come now, don't dawdle."

The fact that Charles could be so lax about swapping one child for another in his peacemaking bargaining ached her heart and Lucinda glanced to her sister almost apologetically, the two girls locking eye contact in that split second, and in that second she could see the hurt written all over Catherine's face.

"Come, Lucinda. _Allons-y_!"

Suddenly thrown into a situation that she had not wanted nor expected Lucinda found it difficult to breath, colour having drained from her face and her heart hammering against the confines of her ribcage.

Why her?  
She shut her eyes and dragged in a deep breath, lungs stinging in reaction, but behind the lids of her eyes, in the darkness of her own thoughts, all she could see were those blue eyes of an Englishman staring back at her.

She snapped her yes back open, composed herself and silently walked from her sister's bedroom, not daring to look at the girl because she could not face seeing that pain and betrayal on her face once more, though she could feel Catherine's eyes boring in to her the whole way, feel them searing until the door closed behind her and she could do nothing but obediently follow her father down the long hallway; leaving her emotionally crippled sister to adjust to the sudden blow of rejection.

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**GLOSSARY**

_Harfleur:_was the principal seaport of north-western France. In 1415, it was captured by Henry V of England.

_Mon moineau:_My Sparrow. A term of endearment.

_Vraiment?:_ Truly? / Really?

_Freluquet:_Whipper snapper, or in this case, Runt.

_Allons-y!:_Let's go!


	3. Midnight Show

**CHAPTER THREE**

**MIDNIGHT SHOW**

**A/N****; So, once again it has taken me an insanely long time to get around to writing the next chapter of this story. All I can say is that I've been horribly busy with very little time to myself, tough I have been bogged down with ideas for this chapter so I need to get them out there. Thank to everyone that has read the first two chapters and found them at least a little bit interesting. Here's hoping this one does something for you too!**

**Reviews are appreciated!**

**Enjoy! =]**

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_**May 22**__**nd**__** 1420; Paris, France.**_

How could this be happening? The same question was gnawing at her mind, festering there like a plague that could not be cured. _How could this be happening?! _Catherine had done everything that had been asked of her and she had done it brilliantly, far better than she ever could have. Catherine was the pretty one, the one with the gentle heart and perfect understanding of what a Princess- soon to be Queen –was supposed to be. Catherine was the one that had been prepped for this for far too long and now the chance to have a King for a husband was being ripped away from her.

Or was it?

The naive part of Lucinda wanted to believe that King Henry didn't want to see her for the reason everyone was instantly assuming; surely there had to be more to it than that?

She had done nothing to seek the attention of this conquering King – except for a swift, fleeting glance of each other in an open doorway – so her bafflement was utterly reasonable, and it was this pure confusion that made her rather gormless and unresponsive in the precious hour and a half it took for her to do as her father had asked and change for this encounter; lost in her own riddled thoughts, while everyone else fluttered around her in excitement.

Maids, seamstresses and, more dreadfully, her Mother had all gathered; chatting, gossiping and tugging at her here and there to decide which look was best. What had they to be excited about? Did they not know that poor Catherine was no doubt currently shut away in her room with a bruised heart and wounded ego just so she, Lucinda, could be stood here being dressed to meet with a King.

"Lucinda, stand up straight. Child, you'll not impress anyone with appalling posture like that."

Her mother's nattering, picky and criticising voice was far too familiar as it was all that Lucinda could ever recall of the woman, the only memory she would constantly have of her. Where some children thought of their mother and remembered fond things all she would ever recall – when a rare moment would arise in which she thought of her mother that is – is her pinched, once pretty face, beady eyes and harsh tones that had never once spoken a kind or loving word to her in her entire seventeen years of life.

Isabeau of Bavaria was the Queen of France whom was loved only by the people who shared her high stature simply because they knew she threw some of the best parties in all of Paris and that it was a reward in itself to remain in her favour.

Isabeau was born into the old and prestigious House of Wittelsbach, the eldest daughter of Duke Stephen III of Bavaria-Ingolstadt and Taddea Visconti of Milan, parents who had sent Isabeau to France when she was fifteen to meet with the King – a younger, handsomer Charles, who was now merely a ghost of the man he was in his youth, and before his boughs of madness began – who liked her enough to marry her three days after meeting her; Isabeau became a Queen at fifteen and so knew, from experience, what was to be expected of her daughter when placed in front of the King of England, she just didn't seem to care _which_ daughter it was that was offered up in this attempt at a treaty of peace.

"There, that is better."

Lucinda's shoulders where pushed back so that her back was straight, chin was up and chest was that bit more prominent; pushed by cold hands clad in far too many rings which snapped her out of her spate of mental questions and caused her eyes to raise and meet with the ocean blue of her mother's. She mentally noted that they weren't the prettiest blue she had ever seen, not like...

"Smile! Nobody wants a frowning bride, Lucinda."

She detected a distinctly peevish note in the deep, Germanic tones of the woman that birthed her and a smile did not reach her lips as demanded; instead she stared at her mother with confusion filled eyes and a knotted brow.

"But," She began in an almost stubborn tone. "It is not _me_ he is to marry. It's Catherine."

This earned a look that was a mixture of two things, annoyance and disappointment; as though Isabeau did not have to state how pathetically foolish this statement was.  
"Catherine played her part, and well too we must give her that, but this King seems to be even more unpredictable than we had anticipated; perhaps it is some game of his. Who is to know? But we have come too far in this Treaty to let it slip away now purely because of one man's personal preference. Now, smile."

Lucinda's frown deepened instead and creased at the corner of her eyes as she turned her gaze away again and delved deep back into her thoughts yet again.

Personal preference...?

Material was thrown over her head to be draped down her body and touch the floor, a maid behind her tying it waist tight around her whilst she wondered.

What did that even mean? Was she to believe that King Henry had preferred the sight of her to her sister based on a seconds glimpse?

If Henry was that unpredictable what was to say he'd take a longer look at her and, much like he had with Catherine, decide she was not the one he wanted either? Perhaps Catherine wasn't out of the running after all, which lead her to the decision that she, Lucinda, would have to make one terribly bad impression on the King of England so that he would come to the conclusion that she was the wrong choice for him and his Kingdom.

Bracelets were slotted onto her wrists, a decorative band around her head as though to symbolise a crown that _could_ someday rest upon there and finally a delicate gold belt made to look like ivy leaves was put in place to circle around her slim waist which brought the floor length maroon dress in even tighter on her hips to show each supple curve. She felt like a goose, fattened, plucked, roasted and ready to be put on display upon a large banquet table for all to ogle at and eventually devour. Within an hour and a half she was ready, burgundy-maroon dress being an affirmation to the colourful, quartered banner of the Plantagenet king with his rampant lions (Isabeau could hear people talking about it already "the Princess wears the colour of the enemy King's banner, a union is established"), hair tied back into the latest style to- as her mother had put it – "display that beautifully long neck that I am sure He will enjoy", and nerves bubbling in her stomach; apparently there was no puff of powder or spray of perfume that could remedy that.

Isabeau was at her side again imposing upon her thoughts and guiding her out of the door with her arm linked through her own in such a tight grip that was silent evidence toward that fact she, Lucinda, really had little to no say with what was happening.

"Pardon?"

She'd not been listening while her mother spoke and so did not hear the question that was directed to her as they strode into the cavernous, cold hallways; though she did see the annoyed, piercing look her mother bestowed on her while waiting for a response.

Isabeau clicked her tongue in irritation and squeezed a little tighter on her youngest daughter's bare arm; a warning?

"I said; have you been practising your steps lately?"

"My steps?"

"Oui, Lucinda, your dance steps." The fractious tone was back within her mother's thick accented voice and it took all she had not to wince at the repeated question whilst wondering why on earth Isabeau would feel the need to ask such a thing at present; she doubted Henry demanded such a quality in his wife?

_Must be pretty, must be polite, must know when to speak and not, must dance_; no, in the few seconds she had seen him he did strike as the kind to be fond of dancing, he seemed stiff and rigid and far too serious for such a light-hearted and free past time.

She replied positively to the question before she was steered left, away from the room she had previously strolled to with Catherine and instead she was led to the grand hall, where the throne often sat and council was sometimes held and where many of the Queen's lavish parties were held.

As the pair and their party of ladies behind them neared the closed double doors there was laughter, chatter and music to be heard from within and it dawned on her then, the dancing; they were attempting to 'welcome' Henry with one of their sumptuous feast. Food, drink, dancing and more drink; did they honestly expect this to woo the young King with such things? Lucinda glanced to her mother and noted her tiny, smug smile as though she'd just achieved something spectacular, and felt a twist of something entirely unfamiliar in her gut. Somehow she did not think King Henry would be impressed with this display, this evidence that the French King was not supporting his army with a supply of reinforcements and ammunition but instead was shut up in the comfort of his grand castle feasting and getting drunk while men and boys of his land, of his sovereignty, died in the mud for him.

As they approached the guards stationed on either side of the door bowed and then opened up the doors for the ladies to enter causing the music and gaiety to come spilling out into the dull hallways the moment the doors were hauled forward. A mixture of smoke and the strong stench of alcohol along with the fragrance of cooked meats hit Lucinda in the face whilst she was herded inside, like Isabeau was some cold hearted Sheppard eagerly leading her lamb to slaughter. The mixture of potent scents made her small nose wrinkle and it did not go unnoticed, Isabeau's hand further tightened its grip on her arm with plump fingers pinching pale skin.

"Smile."

She did, though the expression looked forced and unnatural but at least it was enough to loosen the uncomfortable squeeze upon her arm. As the small party of ladies made their entrance the gathering of guests paused in their conversations and eating in order to bend the knee to their gracious host, to which Isabeau responded with indulgent smiles of satisfaction and delicate waves here and there to those she knew most or favoured.

There were a half dozen ladies of just Isabeau's party that had been gathered in Lucinda's rooms during the preparations to offer their input here and there and, as they entered behind their Queen, they all seemed to enjoy the attention they received purely for being in such close quarters with the Queen.

The ladies wore full-skirted gowns in rainbow hues with high waists and trailing sleeves for this midnight showing of wealth and profligacy, and they walked with a studied, laid-back gait, carefully balancing an array of architectural headdresses glittering with jewels and fluttering with gauzy veils; though none compared to the brilliance of the Queen's dress.

Queen Isabeau was not slender any more – twelve children and all those succulent roasts and feasts such as this had seen to that – but for this late night gathering she had chosen a gown that made her shine with a brightness that would rival the moon Herself. The gown was of lustrous pale-blue silk so liberally woven through with silver thread that it shimmered as she moved, and around her shoulders hung thick chains of pearls and sapphires. On her head an enormous wheel of ashen, iridescent feathers was pinned with a diamond the size of an egg and as blue as her sea-coloured eyes; beside her anyone would look simple and plain. All eyes seemed to gravitate toward her and Isabeau would have it no other way, but as they inspected their Queen, while all eyes were busy, Lucinda allowed hers to drift away.

She observed the room and its extravagant decoration of banners and ribbons, the guests of women in their fine dresses that were almost perfect replicas of a style the Queen herself once wore last summer (though Isabeau had since changed her style, always that one step ahead, thus making her an impeccable trend setter), and men in their equally flamboyant attire that sported richly brocaded doublets with high, fluted collars and exotically draped hats and fingers swathed with glittering gold and jewels.

And then, at the top table where she had sought the friendly face of her father – perhaps for comfort or encouragement, truly she did not know – she saw him.

No jewels or embroidered tunics, no powdered face, no feathers on display; nought but a simple ring of gold atop his head of brown hair and the shimmer of brilliant blue in his eyes that rivalled any of Queen Isabeau's sapphires.

Henry of England was sat upon a high backed chair that boldly resembled a throne in the centre of the top table with Charles on his left and an elder man she vaguely recognised on his right. He looked stern and observant, perfectly sober compared to some of the other people that sat at the same table with his cup of wine sat before him looking utterly untouched; she understood now why Catherine had come to the conclusion that he was constantly angry during their meeting, for he looked it and yet there was something more to the rough, jagged exterior of this young King.

He was young, indeed, barely out of his teens she assumed, though the serrated scar on his cheek appeared to age him five or so years. Descriptions she had received of the King either by maids or her sister had told her of the scar that almost obliterated the whole of his right cheek, the result of a Welsh arrow which had nearly killed him at the age of sixteen while he had aided his father in stamping out a rebellion against the crown; but no description had ever portrayed the full level of the damage.

Yet still, with his tall, athletic figure arrayed in a burgundy-red jerkin (they almost matched, she mentally noted) and sat upon his throne-like chair that blatantly trumpeted his claim to the French crown, he looked remarkably well; she was almost stunned by the noble outline of his profile and the proud set of his shoulder as he sat, almost to the side, with his hand propped under his chin and long index finger caressing the coarse stubble of his strong jaw whilst observing the new entrants to the Hall with hawk like eyes. Nothing slipped passed him easily, this she could see.

Then that gaze fell upon her, bore into her, watched her own grey eyes so intensely that it felt as though she simply couldn't look away; a rabbit caught in the bright lamplight. The weakness crept into her knees again just like they had when she saw him the first time, over Catherine's shoulder where she should never have been; and then as quickly as he had looked at her he turned away, seemingly bored or uninterested.

It felt as though her heart had dropped from her chest into the deepest part of her stomach which churned violently. All she could do was look at him, at that stunningly strong profile as he leaned on his elbow and uttered something to the grey haired man on his right hand side; she watched and realised with a spasm of guilt and slight infuriation with herself that she'd _wanted_ him to approve of her; she wanted to capture the unpredictable curiosity of this man that her sister had failed to gratify.


End file.
